But she, who from yon convent tower
Breathes the pure freshness of the hour;
She, whose rich flow of raven hair
Streams wildly on the morning air,
Heeds not how fair the scene below,
Robed in Italia’s brightest glow.
Though throned midst Latium’s classic plains
Th’ Eternal City’s towers and fanes,
And they, the Pleiades of earth,
The seven proud hills of Empire’s birth,